


Echo

by MayaMarkova



Series: The Prophecies of Prometheus [1]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayaMarkova/pseuds/MayaMarkova
Summary: Echo, the disabled foster daughter of Prometheus, wants justice after the death of her friend Daphne.
Relationships: Prometheus/Pronoia, Zeus/Hera
Series: The Prophecies of Prometheus [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995868
Kudos: 3





	Echo

Help me, Muses, to write what happened after Zeus entrusted to the mad titan Prometheus the creation of the third generation of humans! I know that some prefer to forget the past, because its memories sadden them – be they of mistakes and great misfortunes, or of joys gone forever. I understand them well, because I feel the same. Of course, everyone is free to read or not. But keep in mind that if we are careless and forget our lessons, the worst of the past may return. It has happened before.

Script, no less than song and dance, sets one’s true nature free. What we write is not only what we know or think – it is also what we are. So say the Muses.

Back in the days when Zeus the Thunderer ruled on snowy Olympus, Prometheus had no respect for the Muses. To him, they were just nine of the numerous idlers up there. When he had to describe them in the course of his work, he just went to them with the standard questions. He asked whether they could read and write, and the Muses answered that they couldn’t. They said so because they were offended by the implication that they might be illiterate. Prometheus sensed nothing, took their reply at face value and wrote it down. He added a remark that he attributed their illiteracy to laziness and carelessness rather than to weakness of mind. Not long after that, Thalia asked him to play Zeus in some comedy, adding that he was perfect for the role and didn’t even need a mask. Her request reminded Prometheus of his hated outward resemblance to the Thunderer, and he refused without even trying to be polite. He said that some had work to do and lacked time for pointless amusements. If he had accepted, he would have had an opportunity to know better some of the Olympians, of whom he otherwise complained that they would not listen to him. Or, at least, he would have seen that the play was scripted, and would have corrected the file.

So Prometheus would have been surprised to hear praise to the written word by no other than the Muses. However, he would agree with the sentiment. He knew well that writing helps one put his thoughts in order and figure out his true will. Therefore he kept a diary, which in his situation was a folly, though he tried to take some precautions by omitting the most dangerous words and hiding the scrolls behind titles that would repulse any sane reader, such as, _On the Incorporeal Things_ , or _The Similarities and the Differences between the Ideas of the Good and the Beautiful_. Even more important was writing for his foster daughter Echo. It was her only way to communicate after she lost her speech.

Echo was not his flesh and blood, except to the degree that all descendants of Uranus and Gaea were related. Her father was presumably some satyr, but was never known with certainty and had disappeared before she was born – in fact, immediately after her conception. Her mother was a wood nymph and had named her Echo just because the name sounded well. When the girl turned two, Prometheus visited for a regular check. The mother was pale and skinny, with a wild look in her eyes. She complained that Empusa (a mythical baby snatcher and killer invented by anxious young mothers) had taken her sweet little girl, replacing her with a monster – monster not in shape but in spirit. The nymph said she was desperate but could not force herself to expose or kill that creature, because it still looked quite like her daughter. So she intended to hug it tightly, though it resisted any touch, and jump into the Peneus river to end the misery of them both.

Prometheus realized that something had to be done without delay. The mother was apparently so exhausted that she was losing her mind. She and her daughter were not receiving ambrosia and could easily die. The child had to be separated from the mother, now. He said that he would take the little monster and ensure that it is properly cared for and eventually tamed. To the nymph’s credit, she hesitated for a moment before handing her child to Prometheus, who by this time already had an established reputation of crazy.

As he was returning home with the struggling girl in his arms, he worried what his wife Pronoia would say. They had no children, because she wanted none. And now he was bringing her a toddler considered unbearable by her own birth mother. Moreover, his work often kept him away from home for days, and it was unthinkable to drag little Echo along, so Pronoia would have to care for her. And he had already saddled her with his feeble-minded brother Epimetheus. He was straining his wife’s patience.

But his fear was in vain. Pronoia was delighted to become Echo’s foster mother. She said that while she couldn’t accept the responsibility to bring children to this world, she actually adored them. The first year or so was difficult, with Echo barely sleeping at night and, at day, breaking everything she could lay her hands upon. Prometheus understood why Echo had frightened her mother: she never looked into the eyes of anyone, screamed when touched, could spend hours just sitting in a corner and rocking, and would cry and throw herself to the floor if you served her soup in the yellow bowl instead of the green one. But as time passed, Echo was developing. If given protection and security and kept safe from bright lights, loud noises and unwanted touch, she would stay calm most of the time. Slowly, with a lot of effort and great delay, Echo even started talking. First single words, then simple sentences. She was growing, and her prospects for the future looked better.

Prometheus’ family was living in a house at the foot of Olympus, surrounded by thick old woods and still close to the main road. He had built it when he was working in the Glass Hall on Olympus, so that he could quickly go to work and back. These days were long gone by the time he took Echo. His last task in the Glass Hall was making the third, so-called “Bronze” generation of humans. Zeus had ordered it but did not like the result. So Prometheus was forced to abandon the unfortunate humans in an ash forest at the threshold of winter. There were rumors that some of them had survived against all odds and were even reproducing. Zeus, with his typical carelessness about things unrelated to his interests, had forgotten to declare the field trial over, so Prometheus could not go to the ash forest and check first-hand. He hoped that the rumors were true. But on the other hand, he had also heard, often from the same folks, that the monster Typhon was still living, pressed down beneath Mount Etna, and Coeus’ daughter Asteria was also living, transformed into an island. Rumors were far from reliable; half of them were untrue, and some not even that.

So Prometheus’ work at Olympus was just a memory, and a sad one at that. He no longer had any business there and rarely sent or received messages from his Olympian friends. But he was still living in the same house, though its close distance to Olympus now felt uncomfortable.

One spring, Hermes brought Prometheus a message. Zeus would go hunting with Artemis’ retinue of huntress nymphs in the nearby woods. Prometheus and his wife had to act like a sort of hosts and supply the hunting party with everything needed, because their house was the only one in the region. Pronoia was furious. She had clashed with Zeus before she married because he had lusted after her. The time passed had not improved her opinion of him – not at all.

‘Hunting, give me a break!’ she exclaimed after Hermes went away. ‘Artemis never goes hunting this time of the year. It’s the breeding season. And have you heard before of Zeus hunting? He is on a different kind of hunt. He wants to hunt new females. I understand that he wouldn’t be himself otherwise, but why is he dragging us into this? All his big talk about hospitality is to force himself on others whenever he wishes, and to make them serve his every whim! I will spread a word among our nymphs to leave the forest for a few days. Because, you know, bystanders should not mess with big hunts. Someone could be accidentally shot, trampled upon or bitten.’

‘Excellent idea!’

‘And Echo must stay here and keep Epimetheus company. She should be spared all that commotion. We can meet our dear guests at the meadow by the source.’

‘I actually don’t think Zeus would do anything to Echo. He has no interest in girls so young.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean that he would chase her. He most likely wouldn’t. Yet nothing good ever happens around him! Let’s not take chances. It’s bad enough that we must welcome him.’

Prometheus saw only briefly the hunting party before they headed to the woods. It was led by Zeus, but next to him walked Hera, with adornments better suited for the halls of Olympus than for the forest. She had apparently figured out the true purpose of the hunt and had decided to keep an eye on her husband. Artemis was there with her companion nymphs. And they were surrounded by a motley band of local nymphs. Because, while Pronoia had warned them to stay away, Hermes had ordered them to come. In those days, Zeus’ regular rapes had become a fact of life, like the burning sun in summer and the freezing cold in winter. His subjects tried to escape his lust and save their daughters from it, but could not even dream of a world in which this danger would not exist.

About an hour later, Hera returned, accompanied by three nymphs. She looked tired and said that only fools would roam the forest all day and bring themselves to exhaustion. Pronoia and Prometheus handed her a piece of barley bread, a wrinkled apple from the previous year’s crop and a cup of mixed wine. This was all they had to offer. They had also kindled a fire to bake whatever meat the hunters would bring, but so far there was none. 

As Prometheus was putting more wood into the fire, he sensed something wrong happening right behind his back. He turned and saw Echo. She had left the house and found them, and was standing now in the middle of the party with wide eyes shining with excitement. She looked around, saw Hera, went there and sat down next to her.

What were you thinking, poor little Echo, when you approached the queen of the immortals? Nobody would ever know. With her smooth white ambrosia-nourished skin, untainted by work or want, and beautiful clothes and jewelry, she must have seemed to you a perfect being high above your known mundane world. And you were so trusting, you had never met malice. Why didn’t any of your foster parents grab you and carry you away to safety? They should have known better.

Echo tried to start a conversation. She said who she was, said that the forest was green and asked some simple questions. Hera gave a few single-word answers, then stopped answering altogether. She was visibly annoyed. She had little patience with other people’s children, and she disliked defective children even if they were her own. After all, she had thrown off Olympus her son Hephaestus right after his birth. But Echo was unable to catch other people’s reactions and just wanted to show to this beautiful lady how well she could talk. She had started to make sentences only recently and was very proud of this achievement.

Meanwhile, other hunters started to come back in small groups. First came Artemis with four nymphs carrying a dead stag. Pronoia and some of the nymphs cut the animal and started baking the meat. The pleasant smell spread as a signal that it was time to come, sit down and eat by the fire. All of the hunters looked relaxed… except Hera. She was becoming more and more sullen. Finally, her patience ended. She stood up and looked around.

‘Where’s my husband?’ she asked. ‘Where’s the son of Cronus?’

As you know, referring to Zeus as her husband is an unmistakable sign that Hera is very angry at him; and when she calls him son of Cronus, even today, bystanders rush to hide behind some thick wall. But there was no such wall around. With admirable calmness, Artemis wiped her lips, looked at Hera and replied:

‘He remained behind. We saw another stag, I proposed to leave it alone but he said he’d try to shoot it. But I bet he’ll come back empty-handed. Father Zeus is the worst hunter I’ve ever seen. He’d miss a grazing cow from ten strides.’

Hera stared at the others, one by one, and said ominously:

‘One nymph is missing as well. Who is she?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Artemis.

‘Don’t you know whom you have brought here?’

‘I know my companions. They are all here. I don’t know the locals, and I’m not responsible for them. Maybe one of them has got tired and decided to go home.’ 

Artemis was lying. It was exactly one of her companions that had caught the eye of Zeus. And because the Olympian huntress accepted only virgins in her retinue, the poor girl would be expelled. Nevertheless, Artemis cared enough for her to hide her identity. Everyone knew how vindictively Hera pursued the defenseless females who had been raped by Zeus, as if it was their fault. 

The lie was convincing and Hera switched her attention.

‘Nymphs of this forest, look at each other!’ she ordered. ‘One of you was with us in the morning, but is absent now. Who is she?’

The local nymphs looked at each other and murmured something unintelligible. 

‘It’s useless to ask information from wood nymphs,’ said Prometheus. ‘They are very helpful, but their minds cannot stay concentrated for long.’

‘They tell me what I am asking!’ insisted Hera. ‘Or maybe you also suffer from short attention span?’

‘How can I know? I wasn’t even with you!’

‘Oh yes, I forgot that you faint when you see a drop of blood,’ remarked Hera. Her anger had reached the dangerous stage when she lashed out at random. With her conviction that she was the center of the world, she tended to see everywhere conspiracies against her. Her gaze, cold as iron, passed from face to face. Then she silently turned away and went back to the forest. The others followed her, except Pronoia, who remained to keep an eye on the fire. Pronoia called Echo to stay with her, but the girl didn’t even pay attention.

Hera was walking the same path they had used during the hunt. The others trotted behind, making as much noise as possible so that to warn Zeus and to give his victim time to escape. Even Artemis and her huntresses, usually quiet like shadows in the forest, were now stepping heavily like a herd of bulls. After walking for some time, they met Zeus who was coming toward them, alone. He looked content with himself and the world, and quite innocent. But his cloak was all dirty, as if he had lied on it on the ground, which of course was the pure truth.

Hera stared at him, pressing her fists tightly. Then she turned back to Echo and hissed:

‘Let your tongue, with which you tricked me, lose its power but for the briefest use!’

Without saying a word, the girl ran away like a frightened doe and disappeared into the wood before anyone could stop her. When, hours later, Artemis finally found her, crouched and shivering in a bush, she again didn’t say a word. And her eyes stared blank. 

Echo refused food for days and remained mute for months. Then she started repeating the last words that she had heard. At first, Prometheus was optimistic – after all, this repetition showed that Echo’s mind was processing speech. But it did not progress. True speech never returned. Hera’s cruel words had taken it away. Prometheus actually realized that the jealous goddess had only unleashed some defect hidden deep in Echo’s very thread of life that would manifest itself anyway sooner or later, but he nevertheless blamed it on her. He already hated Hera for the crippling of Hephaestus, and he loved to hate everyone too close to Zeus. And though Hera habitually defied Zeus’ decrees (and often was the only one brave enough to do so openly), she was staying next to Zeus and was in many respects quite like him.

As time passed, repetition of other people’s words became Echo’s best known feature, and her very name was taken to mean “reflected sound”. Indeed, Echo seemed to put no more meaning into the words she was repeating than the rocks did with the words and sounds they were… well, echoing. She also did not use gestures, so it seemed that she would never again communicate in any meaningful way. But Pronoia would not give up so easily on a loved one. She said that Echo did not look feeble-minded, so maybe only her speech was impaired; and if so, why not teach her to read and write? Prometheus considered it hopeless because almost all descendants of Uranus and Gaea could speak, but only about half of the gods and several nymphs were literate. However, Pronoia was very keen to try, and Echo didn’t seem to mind it, so he did not object and even made a new tablet. Tablets of that time were just wooden boards to write words on with a piece of chalk or charcoal. To his surprise, Echo learned first to draw on the tablet objects that she wanted, and then to write true words and sentences. Most of them, of course, were also about her needs, but she would also write things such as ‘SPRING’ when the branches covered with green buds, and sometimes even ‘LOVE’.

But although Echo loved her foster parents in her own way, she left them to live in the forest when she grew up. When they asked her why, she wrote on the tablet, ‘FREEDOM’. It was common for nymph daughters of gods to leave their homes and dwell in the woods, preferring each other’s company to that of their immortal parents. Maybe Echo followed the footsteps of her friend Daphne, daughter of the river god Peneus and his wife Creusa. The two girls joined a company of local wood nymphs who lived free in the forest. Nevertheless, she did not forget Pronoia and Prometheus and often visited them. They were giving her food and clean clothes and taking her old clothes so that Pronoia would wash them and repair them if possible. Unlike many other wood nymphs who walked naked around the forest, Echo always wanted to be wrapped head to toe in soft clothes. They protected her sensitive skin from the twigs and thorns and shielded her body from the looks of satyrs and any other males that could come across. Many nymphs were shy and ran away from any male who was not their close kin – and with good reason. However, for Echo this was an obsession. Prometheus even called her a new name – Aidos, Modesty. He approved her attitude. He was worried by the ever-hanging danger of rape, and even more by the possibility that she could fall in love. The mere thought of Echo liking someone horrified him, though he could not say why.

One morning in the late spring that somehow felt gloomy despite the bright sun, Echo came to the house of Prometheus and Pronoia. It was clear that she had not just dropped for a visit. She was very pale and looked distraught. When they asked what had happened, she brought out her worn-out tablet, scratched something on it and showed it to them. They read ‘DAPHNE IS DEAD’ and looked at each other, stunned.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Prometheus. 

‘Sure,' repeated Echo. Was it just a repetition, or contained the answer? Echo erased the sentence from the tablet and wrote a single word, but with such large symbols that it occupied all the space: ‘DEAD’.

‘Did you expect it?’ Pronoia asked her husband. She meant not his prophetic ability, which she knew to be weak and difficult to interpret, but his knowledge of everyone’s natural life span writ in the thread of life.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘She had hundreds of years more. Must have been an accident.’

‘What has happened to her?’ Pronoia asked Echo. The nymph repeated, ‘happened to her’. Then wiped her tablet and wrote: ‘FUNERAL AT NOON’.

The sun was already high in the sky, so they had to go immediately. Although Peneus and Creusa were considered their neighbors in those vast and sparsely populated lands, hours were needed to reach their house by the river named after Peneus. And it was bad to come late to a funeral. 

The funeral ceremony was paying final farewell to a loved one who had died. Burial, i.e. the actual placing of the dead body into a deep grave dug in the earth, was just its most important part. Burials were necessary to hide from the eyes and noses of the living the changes occurring with the dead. Once someone died, the elaborate and beautiful construction of his body started to collapse. The atoms forming it would eventually find their way back to earth, water and air. But the intermediate state was terrifying. The flesh would rot like any carrion, stinking, losing shape and color, liquefying and hosting worms. So it was absolutely needed to put the body away. However, the funeral included much more, a complex set of rituals. This apparently helped the mourners endure the enormous loss and, for many of them who were not immortal, the thought of their own inevitable death.

Pronoia had never attended a funeral, but several members of her large family had died and she had some idea what was to be done. She unbraided her hair and that of Echo. Then she brought dark cloaks and handed one to Prometheus. He went to change and, through the wall, heard her discontent voice:

‘Listen, Aidos! At a funeral, people wear dark clothes. Preferably black. I know very well that you hate black clothes. But you owe it to Daphne, she was your friend! And even if she wasn’t… This is a damn funeral! You must show respect!’

Prometheus couldn’t help thinking that, to Daphne, it did not matter at all how people would be dressed at her funeral. She was dead; it was strange to comprehend, but she no longer existed. However, Pronoia was right, there were rules to be kept. Finally, after even Echo put on the black, they went to the garden. Celery was usually placed on the head of the dead body and then on the grave; its sharp scent helped to mask that other smell. Flowers could also be put to add beauty to the sad ritual. So, when the family stepped on the path to Peneus’ house, each of them was carrying a large green bunch.

Peneus met them at the gate of his garden. At first glance, he looked as usual and only his eyes showed that something was off. To Prometheus, he resembled someone who had just been heavily hit and was still standing only because he had not yet had time to fall down.

‘Hail,’ Peneus greeted them. ‘She is lying inside the house,’ he told Pronoia and Echo, then turned to Prometheus and said, ‘But males will not be allowed at this funeral. No one but me, like it or not.’

‘Of course, it will be as you say,’ said Prometheus. He was puzzled, but he knew that mourners often honored the tastes of the dead, for example, burying his favorite things with him or singing his favorite songs. And Daphne had avoided males during her life, she had been almost as shy as Echo. So maybe it was not so strange to exclude them from her funeral. Prometheus handed to Pronoia his bunch of plants (mostly asphodels) and asked Peneus:

‘Can I help with anything? Digging?’

‘No, thank you,’ replied the father with a softer voice. ‘I have already dug the grave. Her friends will carry her. Everything is prepared.’

Prometheus said goodbye and went back home. 

The sun had already set when Pronoia and Echo returned, pale and tired. When they changed their clothes and washed themselves, Prometheus served a supper.

‘You didn’t need to,’ said Pronoia. ‘They offer food at funerals.’

‘I’ve heard this, but I don’t think anyone can eat properly there.’

They sat down to eat, but apparently couldn’t yet eat properly anywhere. They didn’t talk, either, and the supper passed in depressing silence. Echo left the table first. She looked at Prometheus and moved her lips, as if she was going to speak. Then she brought out her tablet and wrote a single word.

The titan was amazed that she knew the word, and apparently the idea behind it. He read aloud:

‘Justice?’

‘Justice!’ Echo repeated. Prometheus could swear that there was passion in her voice. She did something she had never done before: looked into his eyes. Then she looked at Pronoia as if saying goodbye and left for her forest.

Prometheus returned to the table and sat down again. Pronoia pushed aside her bowl and looked at him.

‘Daphne fell from a steep riverbank,’ she said. ‘Because Apollo was chasing her.’

‘So that’s why males were excluded from the funeral!’

‘Yes. She was sitting with her friends on a meadow when Apollo came. He desired a female, but no one ever wants to lay with him, especially after what he did to Marsyas…’

Marsyas had been a satyr, a very talented musician and quite clever by the standards of his tribe. He had invented a new pipe which he had called flute, and everyone had been enchanted by his playing. Unfortunately, living free in the deep forest, Marsyas had not even suspected how dangerous the Olympians could be. So a decade ago he had recklessly called Apollo to a musical contest. The Far-shooter had agreed under the condition that the winner would treat the vanquished with discretion. He had called the Muses, his paternal sisters, to be judges. Of course, this had made the outcome look predestined. Nevertheless, Marsyas had shown unsurpassed mastery and had almost won. At that point, Apollo had asked the contest to continue with instruments turned upside down. His lyre of course could play even in this position, while Marsyas’ flute could not. So Apollo had won. He had punished the unfortunate satyr for his hubris by hanging him on a pine branch and skinning him alive. There was a rumor that Marsyas’ skin was still hanging in some cave as an example for others.

‘So he tried to take what he wanted by force,’ Pronoia said. ‘The nymphs dispersed. Apollo ran after Daphne. Her friends, hidden behind trees and bushes, saw everything. She first ran along the Peneus, maybe hoping that she would reach her father’s house. But Apollo was catching up. Then she jumped into the river at… do you know that place where the Peneus slightly turns, and there is a lonely laurel tree?’

Prometheus nodded. Few places along the Peneus had such high and steep riverbanks as that one. Pronoia continued:

‘Some think that Daphne was so afraid of rape that would avoid it at any cost. They think she deliberately killed herself. But I don’t believe it. She loved life! She was full of it, and very strong. I suppose that she wanted to jump into the river and be carried away from her pursuer. And maybe it would work. But she didn’t jump far enough to fall into the water. She landed on the rocks. And must have died instantly.’ Pronoia’s eyes were widely opened and looked black, with pupils dilated in the dim light. ‘Her head was smashed, her spine broken, her entrails torn. I know it is a terrible thing to say, but I think it is better that she did not survive the fall!’

‘And Aidos wants justice.’

‘Poor child! Every good soul wants justice. But who is to deliver it? Apollo’s dad? He’d better look at himself first!’ Pronoia sighed. ‘We covered all her poor body with the celery and the other greenery we were carrying. And when Peneus piled clods of earth above her, we looked at each other and realized that we had not a single flower to put on the grave, as the custom requires. Luckily, there were wild poppies nearby, and we picked them. When the summer is over, we’ll go there again and plant beautiful flowers!’

Nine years passed since that day.

And on the tenth…

**Author's Note:**

> The series to which this work belongs is a sci-fi rendition of Greek mythology. It is loosely based on works by Hesiod ( _Theogony_ and _Works and Days_ ), "Aeschylus" ( _Prometheus Bound_ ), Ovid ( _Metamorphoses_ ) and other ancient authors, in various translations. I am indebted to the writings of William Moulton and discussions with him, as well as the Kosmos Society of the Harvard's Center for Helenic Studies.  
> I have often brought together characters who never interact in canon. For example, there is no canon connection between Echo and Prometheus; I have conflated her with Aidos, an obscure daughter of Prometheus. No one source lists Echo's parents. It is true that she is depicted in vase paintings dressed to the teeth, unlike other nymphs. I have placed her firmly on the autism spectrum.  
> The "thread of life" is DNA. The ominous switching to 2nd person is based on Bill Moulton's observation that this happens in the _Iliad_ when something bad is about to befell the addressed character. "Nine years... and on the tenth..." is common in Greek mythology, e.g. in the descriptions of the Trojan War.  
> The stories of Echo and Daphne are largely based on Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ , and that of Marsyas on Apollodorus' _Library_.


End file.
